A Matter of Faith
by cheride
Summary: From The Birthday Present, a look at what happened between the shooting and the hospital.


**_A Matter of Faith_**- _cheride_

_Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators._

_Rating: K+_

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**A/N: **A missing scene from _The Birthday Present_. It's from the starter in the forum, and it's for Sponge. Many thanks to L.M. and Owl, for looking things over, and for being as okay with the things I leave out as they are with the things I put in.

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McCormick's eyes popped open as he felt the slightest tightening around his hand, interrupting his non-stop praying. It was a prayer longer and deeper than any he'd ever sent up, though he thought it really had consisted of just one phrase repeated over and over again. _Please, God, don't let him die. _Mostly, the words had simply screamed inside his head, but he was pretty sure he'd actually said them aloud once or twice.

But now, there had been a movement from the hand he clutched in his. A slight movement, to be sure, but one that he hadn't really ever expected to come again, not even with all the praying in the world. He pulled the hand a tiny bit closer to him, mindful of the injury to its owner, and fearful of moving him too much, but wanting only to be as close as possible.

"Did you see that?" he asked hopefully, looking over at Sandy Knight. But Sandy seemed to be lost in his own prayers—or his own hell. There was no response from that direction.

Mark glanced up at the bailiff who had stationed himself behind Hardcastle's chair, admonishing them not to move the judge until the paramedics arrived, but he didn't know that man. He was a stranger, a fixture that belonged to this ridiculous courtroom that wasn't fit for Hardcastle to step into, much less be expected to conduct court in; this sure as hell wasn't the kind of place Milton C. Hardcastle was supposed to die.

_He's not going to die! _McCormick's mind insisted, and he could recognize the panic, even in his thoughts.

Mark looked back at the judge's face, not bothering to speak to the bailiff he didn't know, unable to seek comfort from a stranger in this moment. He tightened his own grip around the hand that suddenly seemed far too frail, and leaned closer to the man.

"Judge?" he asked quietly, fearfully. "Can you hear me?"

"No, he can't hear you," Sandy said dully.

And the stranger piped up with his standard refrain, though McCormick thought it was probably supposed to be comforting. "Don't try to move him; the paramedics will be here soon."

And where _were_ the paramedics? McCormick wondered. It felt like hours had passed since Weed Randall had done the unthinkable and fired the shot that had pierced his own heart as it had almost certainly pierced Hardcastle's. He probably would not have believed anyone who told him that less than five minutes had gone by. He focused his attention again on the face only inches before him, the face that was too quickly losing all signs of life.

"Judge? I'm here; you hang on, you hear me?"

And then he felt the tiny movement in his hand again—almost imperceptible, except that he was waiting for it. Praying for it. And then, the blue eyes opened, slowly and with obvious effort, but Hardcastle was looking back at him.

McCormick forced a small smile. "That's right, Hardcase; you stay with me. I've gotten kind of used to having you around, so don't be thinking you can run out on me now."

The words didn't seem to register with the older man as his glazed eyes continued to stare almost sightlessly at McCormick, and his lips moved without sound. Finally, there was a word, barely above a whisper. "McCormick?"

"I'm here," Mark repeated, not knowing what else to say.

And then there was another voice. "I'm here, too, Judge," Sandy added, leaning in from the man's other side.

McCormick forced down an irrational surge of anger, but he didn't acknowledge the other man. And though Hardcastle's eyes drifted very briefly toward the new voice, McCormick was quietly pleased when they turned back almost immediately to try and focus on the ex-con. He wasn't proud of that feeling, but he was honest enough to recognize it. He leaned closer to make out the words the judge was still trying to force out.

"Not . . . your . . . fault," Hardcastle finally managed.

McCormick swallowed hard, wondering how the man would know that behind all the worry, the unconscious thought he was trying _not_ to recognize was that Hardcastle would never have been in this place if not for him. But he pushed that aside and tried to deliver a standard quip. "Damn right it's not my fault; you're the one with half the local crazies out to get you." But he thought the break in his voice might be giving him away. He looked quickly up at the bailiff. "Where the hell are the paramedics?"

"On their way," the man assured him, though McCormick was anything but assured.

But he tried to offer his own reassurance. "Hear that, Judge? Help's gonna be here in just a minute. Everything's going to be okay." He wondered absently if that counted as his first ever lie to the man, then added a silent apology into his litany of silent prayers.

"'Kay," Hardcastle repeated weakly, and then there was silence again, except for the quiet and labored wheezing that had become the judge's breathing, and the general milling about of the few people remaining in the courtroom.

Mark watched the man slipping closer to unconsciousness, and wished desperately that he could find the words to say everything that he wanted to say. _The words to say goodbye_, his mind clarified, though he railed against the idea. It was his stubborn refusal to accept the worst possibility that helped him find words.

"You rest if you need to, Judge. But you know if you're taking a vacation, I am, too. So if you rest too long, the estate's just gonna go wild, ya know? You oughta remember that."

"What the hell are you talking about, Mark?" Sandy suddenly demanded. "This isn't the time to be giving him any of your crap."

"It's _exactly_ the time," McCormick spat back, not adding that there might not be another time. "There are things he expects from me. This sure as hell isn't the time to let him down."

Knight shook his head. "You're unbelievable. And I've never understood what he thought he could expect from you." He leaned closer to Hardcastle's ear. "You can count on me, Milt."

McCormick gritted his teeth and wondered how anyone could be so smug and self-righteous as they watched the life slipping away from a man they called a friend. And it was only the sure knowledge that Hardcastle also considered Sandy a friend that kept the ex-con from trying to knock some of the smugness off the other face. That, and the fact that he simply couldn't bring himself to let go of the hand he still grasped so tightly. While he was studiously trying to ignore Sandy Knight, he saw the judge's eyes flutter open again.

And though the eyes were clouded with pain, Hardcastle fixed the younger man with a gaze that locked out the rest of the world. "You still with me, kiddo?" he croaked.

"Always," Mark answered, the tone leaving no room for doubt. Hardcastle seemed almost relaxed as his eyes began to drift downward again.

Then, before McCormick could think of anything else to say, he heard a commotion behind him, and the bailiff he didn't know was motioning him out of the way as the paramedics moved in. Though, he supposed 'out of the way' probably wasn't the way anyone else would've described it. He finally gave in to necessity and let go of the judge's hand so that the medical personnel could move Hardcastle from the chair to a stretcher, and he wasn't even technically right by the older man's side any longer, as he understood that others needed that proximity to do their work. But he stationed himself directly at the foot of the stretcher where he would never be out of the judge's line of sight, whenever Hardcastle opened his eyes.

But though less than a minute had passed since he'd turned the judge over to these people, he already felt detached—more alone than he'd felt in a long time. _A year and a_ _half,_ his mind supplied, _that's all. Not even. Not as long as it seems._ But not nearly long enough. It wasn't supposed to be over yet. But it _was_ over, or soon would be; he could feel it. He heard the numbers the paramedics were speaking into their radios: blood pressures and respiratory rates and things he couldn't begin to comprehend. But the numbers were low, he knew that. Too low. He wasn't even fully aware that his silent prayers had begun again, his heart unwilling to accept what his mind was already saying was true.

A few eternal seconds passed, and McCormick realized that Hardcastle's eyes had opened again and were looking toward him with worry. He wasn't sure if the judge was able to focus even the few feet that separated them, so he spoke up. "It's okay, Judge; I'm still here." He was vaguely aware of a disgusted look that flashed across Sandy Knight's face, but didn't spare it a thought. He tilted his head as he saw Hardcastle's lips moving, but couldn't make out the words. "What? Judge?" He looked to the medic closest to Hardcastle. "What's he saying?"

The paramedic had leaned forward, listening. He glanced back up at Mark, calm concern on his features. "I think he might be kinda delirious," he said.

"What did he say?" McCormick insisted.

Continuing his ministrations to his patient, the paramedic gave a slight shrug. "He said, 'you wanna go for twenty?' Told ya he was delirious."

As the words sank in, McCormick barked out a single, harsh laugh, then clamped his lips together before the inappropriate laughter could devolve into something more hysterical. He swallowed hard, then managed a response. "Hah. You get so tired of losing that you have to resort to something like this, Hardcase?" He thought he saw the judge's lips twitch toward a tiny smile just before the paramedic slipped an oxygen mask over the tired face.

That seemed to finally be more than Knight could stand, as he muttered something under his breath and brushed past the bailiff on his way toward the door. He paused at one of the other medics and growled a question. "Which hospital?" 'St. Mary's,' was barely out of the man's mouth before the officer continued his determined stride out of the courtroom.

McCormick barely registered any of it; worrying about Sandy Knight was pretty far down his list of priorities right now. But then the paramedics were packing up their equipment, and lifting the stretcher to its upright position, ready to wheel the judge to the waiting ambulance. He shifted to allow them to pass, then immediately followed along behind. He waited until the stretcher had been lifted into the back of the ambulance, then moved forward, intending to climb up beside the judge. One of the paramedics put out a restraining hand.

"You can't ride in there," the man said. And though he sounded apologetic, he didn't sound like he intended to change his mind. McCormick tried anyway.

"I won't get in the way," the ex-con promised in a small voice, "but I need to be in there."

The medic shook his head. "I'm sorry. But you _would_ be in the way."

And then the bailiff was there again. "You have to step back; you need to let them go now." His tone, too, was compassionate, but still firm.

McCormick finally nodded, yielding to the logic. He cast a last look at the man on the gurney, and raised his voice. "Don't worry, Judge; I'll be right behind you." He was backing away, when the paramedic inside leaned down toward Hardcastle again.

"What?" Mark asked, moving closer. "What's he saying?"

"Um . . ." the medic listened another moment. "I think he said 'It'll be okay.'"

McCormick nodded again, and forced a certainty he didn't feel into his tone. "Yeah, Judge, it'll be fine," he said. "You're gonna be fine." He had stepped back to allow the doors to close when he saw Hardcastle's hand moving limply toward the still-close paramedic, and he paused, watching, waiting.

"Oh." The medic looked back at the man standing outside the rig. "He said '_You're_ gonna be okay.'" And then the doors slammed closed and the ambulance moved away, the shrill siren rending the air.

McCormick was standing motionless, except for the slight tremor that seemed to be working its way through his body; he didn't even try to fight that. He stared after the vehicle, not really seeing it leave, knowing only that it was gone when he felt the emptiness that he'd been staving off settle over him as the last remnants of the siren faded away. He thought about the judge's last words to him, and tried not to think of them as 'last words'. He thought maybe Hardcastle had more faith in him than he had in himself, if the man really thought he was going to be okay after this. But then, he thought maybe Hardcastle had _always_ had more faith in him than he'd had in himself.

_Stop it! This isn't over; he isn't dead!_

_He's saying goodbye_, he argued with himself.

_He's scared; he doesn't want you to be scared, too._

_Too late for that._

McCormick shook his head roughly to clear away the raging thoughts. This wasn't the time to give up. He _wouldn't_ give up. He would go to the hospital, and he would keep praying, and he would do whatever he needed to do, but he wouldn't give up. Hardcastle deserved more than that. He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

"You ready now?"

The calm voice startled him, and McCormick turned to find the bailiff standing at his side. "Huh?"

The man offered a small smile. "You looked like you needed a minute, but are you ready now?" He gestured at a patrol car that had pulled in to the spot vacated by the ambulance. "This officer can drive you."

McCormick wondered briefly if he looked so bad that he couldn't be trusted to drive himself, then realized it was most likely a fair assessment. He nodded slowly. "I'm ready. St. Mary's, I think they said?"

The bailiff opened the passenger door. "Yeah. We'll get you there; don't worry. And we'll all be thinking about the judge."

Mark gave another nod as he climbed in and settled into the seat. He turned to look back at the man he didn't know. "Thank you," he said simply.

The bailiff smiled and closed the door, and the patrol car sped off toward the hospital. McCormick was only dimly aware of the lights and siren as they blazed through the streets, his thoughts focused only on Hardcastle.

As they pulled to a stop at the emergency entrance, McCormick was already reaching for the door handle when the officer spoke for the first time. "Can I help you with anything else?"

"No, thanks," McCormick answered automatically, dully. "I'll be okay." Then he paused, considering. After a moment, he repeated the words more confidently. "I'll be okay." Then he climbed from the car and trudged inside to find the judge.

And prayed.


End file.
